


all telephone lines to London are busy (but this is home)

by girl412



Series: assigned ineffable at birth [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley Loves Kids (Good Omens), Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Gen, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Non-Linear Narrative, Other, Post-Canon, Trans Character, crowley explains gender to a five year old, crowley uses they/them pronouns in this fic, fun times all around, i really can't tag, warlock tries to get in touch with nanny ashtoreth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-10-20 10:09:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20673650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girl412/pseuds/girl412
Summary: Warlock Dowling just wants to talk to Nanny Ashtoreth - he's got something important to tell her.Crowley's just eating ice-cream and explaining the gender spectrum to a five year old.Ah, a day in the life.





	all telephone lines to London are busy (but this is home)

**Author's Note:**

> this isn't like the last fic in this series with regards to hurt/comfort -it's far fluffier.  
you don't need to read the first fic to understand this, but it might set some context regarding exactly what warlock is talking about. 
> 
> from a triggers point of view, there isn't much, not really. the five y/o asks crowley if they're "a girl or a boy" so crowley talks thru gender identity. 
> 
> there is an unfortunate lack of aziraphale....... not sure how that happened. he's mentioned, yes. but he's not here as much as i would have liked him to be. oh well.  
there will be the next installment to fix that in. anyway.
> 
> hope u like! wrote this between 2 and 3 AM so feel free to @ me if you see anything that needs to be fixed.

The letter comes in the morning when Warlock is having breakfast. He runs to the mail, holds it in his hands. Shaking a little, he rips it open. 

“Eat your cornflakes,” his mother says. 

He hums, as if he’s listening. but he isn’t, not really. His eyes are focused on the contents of the letter. 

-

Crowley is walking around aimlessly, wearing one of Aziraphale’s oversized sweaters along with their standard skinny jeans. The sweater is one that’d be oversized for Aziraphale, which is to say when Crowley wears it, it makes them look formless, the angles of their body submerged and hidden. It also comes down to their thighs, so often when they’re in the bookshop or in their flat, they don’t bother with trousers, wearing it as a dress, instead. It makes them feel comfortable. It feels like Aziraphale.

They saunter over to an ice-cream vendor, and buy their standard fare. The vendor, used to this, takes their money and hands over the cone. 

Crowley’s doing their regular thing, wandering, eating ice-cream, generally muttering expletives in the direction of pigeons, when they hear a voice that sounds like it belongs to a four-year-old.

“Excuse me,” the voice says, timid, curious, obviously meaning no harm, “but are you a boy or a girl?” 

-

It says he’s won first place. Warlock reads again, just to make sure he hasn’t read it wrong. He’s won first place, and his work will be featured at the exhibition for two weeks. The first day of the exhibition of all the selected entries (twenty out of the two hundred have been selected, the letter tells him, this is a big honour) is occurring in a week. 

Warlock feels something sour settle in his stomach. A week isn’t much time, and he really wants Nanny Ashtoreth to see the portrait. A week definitely isn’t enough time to wrangle a flight from the UK to the USA, unless you’re filthy rich, which Warlock is, but Nanny probably isn’t.

Still, Warlock doesn’t want to give up. He begins to eat his cereal with newfound vigour. He’s formulating a plan. 

-

“Emily, you _can’t _just ask someone that!” The child’s mother says, disapprovingly. She turns to face Crowley, gives them an apologetic look. “I’m so sorry about that.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Crowley says, nodding at her. She’s wearing a pronoun pin on her jacket, so it’s obvious that she’s an ally. “Can I talk to Emily, if that’s okay?” 

“Yes,” Emily interjects. She’s wearing the sort of dress little girls in fashion catalogues do – all sequins and unicorns and frills. Crowley loves it. 

Emily’s mother nods as well. 

“How old are you?” Crowley asks Emily, bending over so that they’re almost at her level.

“Five!” Emily says. Hm, Crowley thinks that four had been a pretty good guess.

“Okay then,” they say. “You’re old enough to have the real big adult talk about gender, I reckon. What do you think?” 

Emily nods solemnly. 

-

Warlock doesn’t dare ask his parents about getting Nanny Ash’s number. He’d tried that once when he was younger and it hadn’t gone down well. It was true that his father was usually the one who’d cause a fuss over anything of the sort, upset that his son was a different child from the macho, football playing, jock boy he’d dreamed of ever since he’d gotten to know that his wife was pregnant. However, this time, both his parents had said no, very clearly.

On his mother’s part, it was more concerned, more along the lines of “You’re too old for your nanny now, Warlock. You need to learn to do this on your own.” 

On his father’s, it was the masculinity thing. God forbid Thaddeus Dowling’s son was a _pansy_, after all. 

Warlock frowns, just thinking about it. He needs Nanny Ashtoreth’s number, email address, Skype id, something, anything. 

He knows his parents well enough to know that they won’t give it to him.

He also knows them well enough to know that they don’t throw this sort of thing away. _Ever. _

-

“Imagine pink represents being a girl, and blue represents being a boy,” Crowley begins uncreatively. 

“Mummy says colours don’t have a gender, and that’s sexist,” Emily says.

“And she’s absolutely right, love,” Crowley says. “It’s just an example. Like how in your maths class, your teacher must be teaching you addition with, er, apples, right?”

Emily nods.

“That doesn’t mean that maths applies _only _to apples. It’s just one case. If you want we can do this again, make blue the girl colour and pink the boy colour this time. Or you can choose colours. Is that alright?” 

Emily nods again. “I like blue,” she says thoughtfully. 

“Now, you know how there are shades of blue, yeah?” Crowley goes on to say. “Some are darker, some are lighter. And there are shades of pink too?” 

“I did the colour wheel in daycare already,” Emily says in that very specific voice children use when they think adults are being very silly. 

“Yes, exactly,” Crowley agrees. “So, like that. There are ways to be a girl, and ways to be a boy. Not all girls and all boys are the same on how they experience gender.” 

“Okay,” Emily says, sincerely enough. 

“Now, there are colours in between,” Crowley says. “Some people aren’t a girl or a boy, but they’re a mix of both, or of other genders. Like how purple is in-between pink and blue, but it’s not pink, _and _it’s not blue. It’s a whole thing of its own.” 

Emily nods. She looks enthralled. Even her mother is listening keenly, Crowley notices.

“Some people’s genders are in the middle of girl and boy, like that,” they go on to say. “but some others have genders that are on a different scale. Like, imagine, the colour yellow. Does that even exist between pink and blue?” 

“No,” Emily says firmly.

“Gender can be like that,” Crowley says. 

“That was a very lovely explanation,” Emily’s mother says. “If you don’t mind my asking, what are your pronouns?” 

“Today? They/them,” Crowley says. Then, realizing they haven’t asked yet, they extend a hand for a handshake. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Crowley. You are?” 

“Julia,” Emily’s mother says. “Pleasure’s all ours.”

“Can we buy ice-cream together?” Emily asks. 

“Now, Emily, we don’t know whether our friend Crowley is busy, or – ”

“I’m never too busy for ice-cream,” Crowley says, smiling at Emily. “but it’s your mother’s call, of course.” 

“Oh, alright. Let’s go.”

-

Warlock rifles through the folders after breakfast. Doing what you’re not supposed to do in plain sight has, he’s learnt, turned out to be the easiest way to get away with doing it. He finally finds a typewritten scrap of paper with the words _Lilith Ashtoreth _and a UK cell number. He keys the number into his own phone, puts the paper back. 

He goes outside, to the back garden, where he knows he won’t be disturbed. 

Quickly, before he can overthink it, he calls the number. 

Nobody picks up, and it goes to voicemail. _“Hey, this is Anthony Crowley,” _the voice says. “_You know what to do; do it with style.” _And then there’s silence.

Warlock doesn’t know any Anthony Crowleys. They don’t sound Scottish, don’t have the gentle lilt that he associates with Nanny Ashtoreth, but something in his gut tells him it’s not the wrong number. There’s something about the enunciation of words that _does _remind him of his nanny. Maybe this Anthony, whoever they are, is a distant relative of hers, or somebody connected to her. Maybe they will know how to contact her directly.

-

Crowley feels their phone vibrate, but ignores it. They buy ice-cream for Julia and Emily, and refuse to let Julia pay. 

“My treat,” they say. 

“After everything, i really think ice-cream should be on me,” Julia says. She still looks apologetic.

“Nah,” Crowley says. They eat their second ice-cream in less than an hour with gusto. Aziraphale would be proud. 

“Crowley?” Emily asks. They can tell that she hasn’t said Mister or Miss because she doesn’t know which one is more appropriate, which is a good thing, as it happens, because neither really works. 

“Yes, doll?” Crowley asks.

“How do you know? That you’re not a girl, not a boy?” 

Crowley shrugs. “You just _know, _when it happens. If it happens. Trust your gut, and don’t be afraid.” 

Emily, suddenly, dripping ice-cream and all, gives them a big hug. She’s not tall enough to do more than wrap her arms around their knees, but she does this, anyway. 

“Thank you,” she says. “You’re a better teacher than anyone at school.” 

“Am I now,” Crowley murmurs, amused. But also a little touched. Not that they would admit it, obviously.

-

Warlock takes a few steadying breaths. He’s going to do it. 

He takes his phone out, types out a text message. _Hello Anthony, _he begins to type. Mr. Anthony? He wonders. It doesn’t sound right, for some reason. Nor does hello Anthony. 

Ultimately, he just scraps addressing the person on the other end by name, and types out a simple _hi. _

He stares at this message for a few minutes, and thinks. Then, he types a little further. 

_Hi. This is Warlock Dowling – i found this number under the name Lilith Ashtoreth and was wondering if you have any idea how i can get in touch with her? it’s important. _

He reads it once. He reads it again. He figures, fuck it – hits send. 

-

Crowley’s phone pings in their pocket. They frown, wondering who could’ve messaged them. Even now, three years after the Apocalypse that Didn’t, they dread hearing from Hell, which, while unlikely, is not impossible. 

They decide that they’ll check their phone once they’re in the bookshop. 

Something in their gut is telling them that they’ll need Aziraphale by their side for whatever comes next. 

(Something in their guts turns out to be right. When they _do _open the text message, they gasp and feel like something breaks in their head. Aziraphale makes them hot cocoa and waits for the demon to tell him what’s happening. Crowley’s distress is evident judging by how they drink the cocoa without even complaining about how much sugar it has.)

(Once the information has sunk in, though, they smile. A big smile, the sort of smile they only usually indulge in when drunk. Aziraphale watches them, and thinks, _oh. It’s alright. _And he’s right. It _is _alright.)

**Author's Note:**

> can't rlly think of an end note  
hmu @ botanicallycrowley on tumblr if you want 
> 
> TIME TO GET A WIGGLE ON


End file.
